


Little King

by northbound



Series: Little King [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Pre-Slash, mostly just bitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:18:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northbound/pseuds/northbound
Summary: The second time that Alfred ever truly saw him was on the battlefield, and Alfred realized that his mind was not the only dangerous thing about Ivar Ragnarsson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this was just written bc i became aware of the shocking lack of ivar/alfred fics in existence. i have not rewatched the episodes before writing this so there are definitely a few inaccuracies, enjoy anyway.

The first time met each other…well the first time they met each other Alfred was only a child. Though, he supposed that Ivar was too. It did not seem that way. When they first met, Ivar seemed older, more powerful, even despite his broken legs. Ivar held the sort of commanding power that Alfred, with use of both of his legs, doubted he'd ever possess. Ivar was power incarnate, and even broken, he seemed very dangerous. Alfred hadn’t been afraid.

  
That was the way, Alfred supposed. Despite how dangerous Ivar truly was, few had been afraid of him before, because of his legs. Few could look past that alignment and saw how dangerous he really could be. Alfred would admit that he too forgot, but by the time the Vikings had disappeared from the stronghold in York having tricked their army again, Alfred remembered.

He remembered playing chess with Ivar in the halls of his grandfather’s castle. He remembered Ivar’s keen strategically mind that was already evident in their few games that they played together. Alfred saw the danger in Ivar’s mind before anyone else, he thought. It was Alfred’s grandfather who told him that the mind was the most dangerous weapon of all.  
This was to say that the second time that Alfred and Ivar ever truly saw each other was on the battlefield, and Alfred realized that his mind was far from the only dangerous thing about Ivar Ragnorson.

  
Alfred was not one for fighting. He wished he were; he wanted to be a warrior so dearly. Sometimes late in the nights, before grandfather died, back when they still lived in the palace and war was a distant thought, Alfred would sit in the window watching his father and brother come back from the field. Though they were young Aethelred had already shown proficiency in the field of battle. Alfred had not.

  
His arms were weak, and his lungs ached during training. Ecbert had said that Alfred was strong because of his soul and mind, but Alfred wanted to be strong like his father.

  
Sometimes as he stared out at his brother and father returning from practice together and wondered if his father loved him just the same as Aethelred. It was then that Alfred was reminded that Aethelwulf was not Alfred’s true father at all. He was reminded that it would be impossible for Aethewulf to see Alfred as a true son, to look at him and not hold some resentment in his heart, no matter how much he tried not to. Mother would never admit it was true, neither would the father who raised him. Sometimes Alfred believed them both, but in the quiet of the night, Alfred was confronted with the reminder that he was no different from a bastard and that he was born out of sin and weakness of the flesh. Alfred would close his eyes and try to forget. He wondered if he was strong like Aethelwulf instead, if he was as good of a fighter as his brother that he could make the rest of the world forget this too.

In battle, Alfred felt fear. It was not the first time and he knew that it would not be the last time. Fear followed him around like a ghost, even when it was not his own. Often it was the fear that his mother felt for him that weighed Alfred’s conscious down. It was worse when they were living in the shacks out in the marshy grounds, dislocated in the Viking attacks of Wessex when Alfred was plagued with sickness. He had not been afraid in those days where his life was holding to his body by a thin thread. His mother had been though, even his father was afraid that Alfred would die on a straw bed in the middle of the foggy marshes. He hadn’t, he had lived, and now Alfred knew that his mother was afraid he would die in battle instead. Alfred was afraid of that too.

  
Being in the thick of the fight reminded Alfred of his completely unprepared he felt for battle. It reminded him of all the lessons he had with Grandfather Ecebert while Aethelred was out in the field with father training with swords and shields, while Alfred had been training his mind. Learning roman strategies and literature counted for very little when your skin was stained with blood and a sword was at your throat.

  
It was only after his father had pulled him from the fighting that Alfred had looked back as he heard the sound of wheels being driven over mud and cobblestone. When the chariot emerged into the chaos, Alfred was already far from immediate danger. He saw it all the same. A Viking warrior covered in blood, shouting as he threw ax from his hand into the chest of one of Heahmund’s soldiers. Aethelred pulled Alfred by the arm until they were away from the fray, and it was only when Alfred was pulled around a corner that he took his eyes off of the Viking.

  
It would be late in the night, while father and Heahmund discussed strategies, that Alfred would realize he knew the Viking who had been in the chariot. He remembered Ivar the Norseman who once sat across from Alfred playing chess, the cripple who King Ecebert had pardoned and sent away because no one had thought that such a man could be a threat to Wessex. Alfred thought that his grandfather had made a grave mistake—Ivar Rangorson was more than just dangerous, he was deadly.

 

 

It was the third time that they met which would really matter. Alfred had watched the war with the heathen army for long enough. He had seen his father die in battle; he had seen his brother be crowned king, only to die just the same. Alfred watched his mother mourn the lives of everyone she loved, all of who died because of the Viking army. Alfred did not go out to meet with the heathen army with plans of surrender—not after Aethelred died in Basings—but Alfred did want peace. He wanted to go back to the life before the war, back when Alfred could still look out the window and see his father and brother walking up over the horizon and know that God had a plan for his family’s future. Back when Alfred thought that all sufferings must come to an end.

  
He thought of when Aethelred’s head was delivered to the gate of the camp, a fortnight ago. Alfred thought of the little chess piece that was tied to a leather chord along with it. A cruel and familiar gift that left Alfred feeling a deep emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

 

“This is a mistake.” Alfred’s mother urged him the morning that he was meant to go meet with the Viking army. “They will not surrender, don’t you see? They want to destroy us—they want to destroy you.”

 

Alfred pushed his mother’s hand from his shoulder as gently as he could. Her eyes were still red from mourning Aethelred’s passing, her voice shook. Alfred knew that there was no woman as brave and as wise as his mother, but he also knew that she would say anything to keep Alfred alive. She did not want to mourn another son, but Alfred did not want anyone else to die.

 

“I have to go—“

 

“Send someone else. Bishop Heahmund and the others are already going, why must you?”

 

“Because I am king.” Alfred’s voice did not sound nearly as strong as he wanted it to. Truth was, Alfred was hardly a king at all, and he felt as if everyone knew it. Aethelred should be king, he was the warrior, the strong one. Alfred always thought he was much smarter than his brother, but the power of the mind meant little when it came to brute combat, which had become the world Alfred lived in.

 

He grabbed the bridle of his horse and looked out at the party already waiting by the gate. Bishop Heahmund had arranged the peace meeting with a begrudging sort of resignation of their failure. He too must have been thinking about the norsemen who visited their camp a lifetime ago asking for the same thing. Alfred had advised the council to agree to the Norsemen’s treaty back then, but instead they chose the path of violence. Alfred did not think the heathen army would do any different—especially now that they were winning. It was their only option left though. Heahmund had prayed to God for guidance, but he said that God would rather they saved the remaining lives of their people than engage in this bloody failing war. Heahmund had taken Alfred aside when Aethelred's head arrived at the gates and told him that Alfred could make it so that no one else had to die. Alfred toyed with the bloody chess piece that came with his brother's head, feeling as if his body was a world away and much smaller and thought that Heahmund was right.

 

“You see that this is a mistake.” His mother reached out and grabbed the bridle keeping the horse in place. She stepped close to Alfred and spoke lowly, as if thinking they might be overheard by Heahmund and his party who were watching them from the gate. “You are letting Heahmund order you around when you know that this is a mistake. You are smarter than this Alfred; you are king. Not he. Don’t make this mistake, don’t make me lose another child to our enemies.”

 

Alfred looked away and pulled the mare toward the gate. “I will not die today, mother.” He told her before they parted, unable to meet her eyes as he spoke, “I will not let anyone else die in a losing war either.”

 

Alfred felt like a figure head of a ship as the peace proceedings carried on, a voiceless inclusion on a meeting he felt no place in. Bishop Heahmund spoke to the Heathen army—to the man Hvitserik, who Alfred remembered grimly from years ago who had come to the Saxon camp to try and make peace, and to Ivar the Boneless who stood braced upon the chariot that he rode into battle on.

  
Alfred was listening to the words Heahmund spoke carefully, a feeling of resigned discontentment in his stomach as he heard the basic principles of a surrender. He kept seeing the faces of his brother and father and all the others who had died in this war these norsemen started and he did not think surrender honored their memories at all.

 

“And what do you think?”

 

Alfred looked away from the line of the horizon he was staring off at and towards the war chariot in which Ivar the Boneless waited. Alfred had not spoken since the start of these proceedings, and his presence had been otherwise ignored. He was king, but just barely—his realm was bathed in bloodshed and there were only bloody thorns to wear as a crown.

 

Ivar raised an eyebrow, awaiting a response. There was a taunt in his gaze, a cruel smile on his lips, as he words mocked Alfred with a sort of sardonic glee. “You are their king, are you not? You too wish to surrender your arms?”

 

Alfred could feel Heahmund’s eyes on him holding a dangerous sort of intensity. Alfred was told that this was the decision that Aethelred should have made, that God wanted him to make. It was not surrender, but peace.

 

“I wish for the end of bloodshed,” Alfred answered stiffly, “for peace.”

 

“Peace?” Ivar’s words lilted gleefully as he looked to the man beside him. “Ubbe wanted peace too, no? Hvitserk what did the Saxons do with your peace last time?”

 

“This is different.” Bishop Heahmund answered in a flat, angry voice.

 

Ivar laughed, “Because you are losing. I do not want peace, as you do.” He said pointing a finger towards Alfred, his eyes leveling into Alfred’s with a dangerous intensity, as his words fell solemn, “I want to have your skulls at my feet, just as your last king’s was. I want you to beg for mercy, and then I want you to beg for death.”

 

Heahmund’s anger flared as he spat, “God will see your Heathen Army burn,” before turning his horse and kicking its sides as he started down the hill before he could say something he would regret.

 

The rest of the peace party was of equal measures of discomfort and frustration, which no doubt only brought Ivar the Boneless more glee. It seemed the peace meeting was over. As the parties from both sides started to move away Alfred stayed still on his mount, as did Ivar.

 

“Will you try and sway me towards your Christian peace,” Ivar mocked, with a leer, “Little King?”

 

“I remember you,” Alfred said suddenly, thoughtlessly. A memory remained stuck in his mind, growing, until Alfred only felt a pang of unrest in his chest. He continued, feeling compelled to speak such thoughts if only to banish that lonely feeling in his chest that he thought the boy in front of him might share. “and your father. I’m sorry he died, I’m sorry the pain it has brought you.”

 

For a moment Ivar’s face was startled. It quickly turned into a sneer. “It was your king who killed him.”

 

Alfred did not think that this was true. He wouldn’t contradict Ivar though, and only gave a short nod. “Even so.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out the crucifix that hung around his neck, pulling at it so that the leather cord around it broke free. “He gave me this before he was taken to his execution. He said it belonged to my father, whom I never knew.” Alfred stared at the crucifix for another moment before tearing his eyes away and clearing his throat, “I gave you a gift the last time we parted, it was recently returned to me, as you well know. I would like to give you this now, I believe it meant more to your father than it could for me.”

 

Alfred felt the hollow tug of discomfort as he tossed the crucifix to Ivar, watching as the other man caught it on reflex, a frown on his lips. Alfred did not want to part with the crucifix, truly, but it had recently hung heavier on his neck. He thought that maybe that feeling was guilt. The feeling was gone when the metal left his hand.

 

“I do not want your Christian icon,” Ivar sneered, and Alfred felt the rise of fear that the crucifix would be tossed in the mud at the chariot’s wheels.

 

Alfred looked away, aware of the party waiting over by the trees for Alfred to join them back to the camp. “Toss it then, or burn it. It’s yours now.”

 

“Why?” Ivar asked, equally unsettled by the gift, perhaps feeling the same uneasiness Alfred felt.

 

Alfred tilted his head up, looking at Ivar as the rising sun crested over the hill they stood on, “Because it is an awful thing to lose someone you love.” Alfred felt his throat constrict as he thought of his father and brother, “And because when you fall in battle I hope that this will bring you peace.”

 

And Ivar’s lip twitched, a smirk forming as if things fell into sense for him, “Ah, you do want revenge.” He toyed with the crucifix in his bloody hand, rolling it over between his fingers.

 

Alfred shook his head.  _I want peace_ , he thought, and yet when he spoke he said, “I want justice, for the lives the norsemen have destroyed.” _For the lives of my family which you have stolen. For the_ pain _you have brought me and my mother._

 

“You will lose,” Ivar’s voice mocked him as Alfred kicked his horse, making a move to go down the hill, “When you have, I shall send this back with your head to the gates of your people.”

 

“And when you die,” Alfred reeled, feeling his blood boil as he thought of his dead brother and his mother’s crying eyes. He felt the anger crest inside him and he forced it back—the mind is a dangerous weapon, but anger is its greatest weakness. Alfred thought that Ivar had a brilliant mind, a dangerous mind, and a deadlier spirit. He thought that Ivar’s greatest weakness; perhaps his only weakness, was his anger. Alfred would not make that mistake. His voice came out quiet as his horse cantered back, “When you die, I shall be sure that you are buried alongside your father.”

 

Alfred would not look back as he rode down the hill to where Heahmund and the others waited. He did not answer questioning glares leveled his way.

 

“Why are you standing there?” Alfred asked, as he guided his steed in the direction of the Saxon camp, “We have a war to plan.”

 

The fourth time Alfred and Ivar met would be the last.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ivar remembered the boy king Alfred well enough. It was an inconsequential sort of memory, one placed so far off in Ivar’s head that he hadn’t bothered thinking about it for years. When he’d previously been in Wessex, Ivar had been concerned with his father dying. Things were different now, and Alfred felt like anything but inconsequential.

 

  
He saw him in the battlefield in York as he stood in the tower watching the scene, thinking that he should be out there in the fray, that he was a far better warrior than any of his brothers. He planned on calling for the war chariot when he saw something familiar in the bloody fray that caught his eye. It was the man Aethelwulf, a king now that Ecbert was dead. Aethelwulf was a fair enough fighter, for a Saxon at least, but as Ivar watched him he noticed that the king was far less focused on killing his enemies, and more concerned with someone who stood across the field.

  
At first Ivar did not recognize him. Alfred had just been a boy when Ivar had seen him last, and he was just a boy now too. Taller though, with a gaunter face and wide eyes frozen in fear. He fought like an idiot, like he had never held a sword before that day, and as if he’d never killed a man before. He probably hadn’t, Ivar thought as he watched as King Aethelwulf crossed the battlefield to get to his bastard son, killing the opponent Alfred was up against with savage strokes of his sword as his boy cowered.

  
Alfred was wholly unprepared for war, and Ivar thought he must still very much be the boy who played chess with Ivar while he was a captive in King Ecbert’s halls. Still very much the boy who handed Ivar the polished chess piece before he was put on a boat back to Kattegat. The memory filled his chest with anger, anger built off of shame and humiliation and Ivar turned from the window, shouting at someone to ready the chariot for battle.

  
Ivar would not think about Alfred again for months.

 

 

When the memory did return it was in the dead of winter. It wasn’t nearly as cold as it could get in Kattegat, but with the unending sieges and battles, it put a strain on the army anyway. The Saxons had re-engaged their tactics of starving the Heathen Army out, attacking the hunting parties and scourging their resources. Even so, the norsemen were winning. Ivar was winning.

  
The Saxons were weak, and after their King Aethelwulf was killed in battle they only became worse. Their new king was called Aethelred, and Ivar couldn’t even place a face to the name. It didn’t take long for him to learn about the new king, who was filled with fury over the death of his father. Ivar had Aethelwulf’s head displayed at the front of his chariot when they first went into battle to see if he could witness some of this fury for himself.

  
King Aethelred’s fury was not enough to keep him alive and in the battle at the place the Saxons called Old Basing, Ivar remembered throwing his ax at the king and cracking his skull in the heat of battle.

  
Later, after their victory fell and Ivar was back at his camp he would think of the death of the king and wonder who then was next.

  
Revelries sounded out from beyond Ivar’s tent, but he chose to ignore them in favor of planning the next attack. The Saxons had faced eight consecutive defeats, a few more and Ivar thought that he could overtake Wessex completely. For all the talk of the brave fighter, Aethelred had been a fool in the four battles he lead, and Ivar’s forces had easily overtaken all of them.

 

“Why are you all alone in here?” Hvitserk opened the heavy flap of the tent and staggered inside, leaning against one of the poles to keep his balance. “Didn’t you hear, we won.”

 

Ivar glared at him and looked down at the map in front of him, “If Aethelred is dead, who is king of Wessex now?”

 

Hvitserk made a face, “Who the fuck—“

 

Ivar didn’t need to hear Hvitserk’s answer. He had recalled the lineage himself. If Aethelred was dead then King Ecbert’s last living heir was the boy Alfred. He laughed aloud, making Hvitserk jump.

 

“Where is the body of their king?” Ivar crawled over to the bed roll and took out the bag that sat beside it, digging around until he found the smoothed piece of wood. He turned to Hvitserk and instructed him, “Have them cut off the dead king’s head and deliver it to the Saxon camp. A coronation gift to the boy king.”

 

Hvitserk laughed, though Ivar doubted he really understood what was going on. Ivar found a tinge of annoyance at that—annoyed at his lacking an equal in this camp. Ragnor had been as close to one as Ivar had ever met, but everyone else fell short. Sometimes Ivar felt as if he was speaking a different language than those around him.

 

“Get them to tie this to the head.” Ivar climbed back on his chair and held out the little chess piece for Hvitserk to grab, his aggravation dulled by the thrilling feeling of a hunt that was about to begin. Ivar wondered if the boy king would be as boring as his brother, he hoped not.

 

“What is it?” Hvitserk rolled the chess piece between his fingers and squinted.

 

“A gift that I am returning,” Ivar told him, reeling at his own cleverness. The war was almost over now, but Ivar thought he could still have some more fun yet.

 

 

The peace meeting the Saxons organized was a joke. There had been a few skirmishes in the passing weeks, but no battles since the death of King Aethelred—the Saxons were too weak and disorganized to fight back. The meeting would be the perfect opportunity for a trap—to kill the last remaining Saxon threats in one swift blow. Ivar did not want to do that yet though, with the end so near, Ivar thought he could drag it out a little longer and really enjoy it. On the battlefield—in war—Ivar was not a cripple, he was a god.

  
Ivar agreed to meet with the Saxons anyway, amused and half curious at what they meant by peace in the letter that had arrived at the camp. As a show of good faith, Ivar hadn’t even killed the messenger, only sent him back to the Saxon camp saying that they would meet at the large hill that sat at equal distances between the Heathen and Saxon camps.

 

“We will give fertile land to your people to settle on,” The warrior bishop Heahmund told Ivar at the start of the talk, “That along with a yearly tribute to ensure there is no ill will between our people.”

 

The bishop spoke with obvious frustration and anger and Ivar could tell how much this surrender was killing him inside. That shame was almost enough to make Ivar consider pretending to go along with these proceedings to see what else he could get out of the Saxons, but the thought didn’t sit right with him.

  
His eyes, not for the first time, wandered over to the pale figure sitting atop the horse at the end of the Saxon party. Alfred looked tired, with deep circles under his eyes and a heavy expression directed at the slowly rising sun over the hill. He did not look like a warrior like his brother and father had, Ivar thought, this man was more suited for those dusty temples where the Saxons prayed to their god. He looked weak, and Ivar wondered if the battle against him had already been won.

 

“And what do you think?” Ivar asked suddenly, interrupting the bishop who had begun speaking again.

 

Alfred looked up, eyes wide as if he hadn’t expected to be addressed at all. His eyes were heavy and rimmed with red, like he’d spent the night in restless sleep or crying. He looked defeated. There was something disappointing about that—Ivar had hoped for more of a fight. He could hardly continue being a god when his opponent was a corpse.

 

Ivar tried to provoke him with a taunt, continuing the questioning, “You are their king, are you not? You too wish to surrender your arms?”

 

The line of questioning had set the Bishop on edge, and suddenly they were both watching the boy king, awaiting an answer.

 

“I wish for the end of bloodshed. For peace.” Alfred answered stiffly, his eyes barely rising to meet Ivar’s.

 

While the Bishop looked relieved at the answer, Ivar felt himself laugh. This wasn’t a king at all. Just an idealistic boy who had only just learned what war really meant. It was all only just too boring for Ivar and he decided that these games had worn their welcome and this peace talk had reached its natural ending.

  
Ivar taunted the bishop some, getting a rise out of him, but disappointingly, none from the new king. Ivar even brought up the death of King Aethelred, but the only reaction that garnered with a small flinch from the new king. Even so, when the Bishop rode away in a fury and the rest of the peace party went with him, King Alfred stayed.

  
Ivar curiosity peaked, and he wondered if this was part of the game. If the plan all along was to have the boy king try and appeal to Ivar one on one to see if that negotiation tactic worked better. Ivar dismissed Hvitserik and the other two men in the party so that he and the new king were left alone.

 

“Will you try and sway me towards your Christian peace, Little King?”

 

Alfred’s face flushed at the jeer, and Ivar felt a dark sense of glee at that. But, the taunts hadn’t sent Alfred turning back to the other Saxons, or even had him averting his gaze again, instead, it seemed Ivar’s taunt had awoken something in the boy.

 

“I remember you,” Alfred said suddenly, his voice clear in the cold air, “and your father. I’m sorry he died, I’m sorry for the pain it has brought you.”

 

For a moment, Ivar was startled. He could only hear his own heart beating in his ears. He forced the feeling away, and for the lack of a better response, Ivar sneered and said, “It was your king who killed him.”

 

The boy king nodded solemnly, “Even so.”

 

Alfred spoke as he reached under the chainmail covering his chest and pulled at a leather cord that wound loosely around his neck. Ivar watched the motion with a vague sense of confusion, unable to look away. Alfred gave a sharp tug at the leather cord and it broke free from his neck, and began speaking again.

 

“He gave me this before he was taken to his execution. He said it belonged to my father, whom I never knew.” Alfred stared at the necklace that he held in his palm, and it took Ivar a moment to realize that he was talking about Ragnar again. Alfred’s voice broke off, as he cleared his throat. He looked back up, “I gave you a gift the last time we parted, it was recently returned to me, as you well know. I would like to give you this now, I believe it meant more to your father than it could for me.”

 

The necklace was tossed in Ivar’s direction, and while he didn’t mean to catch it, Ivar did anyway. He wound the leather around his palm and looked down at the little metal cross now in his hand and stared.

 

“I do not want your Christian icon,” Ivar scoffed, thinking of all the things Floki had taught him about these Christian people and wondering why Alfred would ever give him such a gift. He wondered if the item was cursed, perhaps as revenge against the similar necklace Ivar had gifted Alfred along with his brother’s head.

 

Alfred ducked his head, looking briefly over his shoulder at the Saxon party waiting for him down by the trees, as he spoke in a stiff voice, “Toss it then, or burn it. It’s your now.”

 

“Why?” Ivar thought that this must be some sort of trick, he simply could not figure out how though. Surely it was not just because the king thought Ivar was still mourning his father and wanted to gift him something to repent for that, not after Ivar’s own gift to the mourning boy king.

 

“Because it is an awful thing to lose someone you love.” Alfred’s voice was thick. He coughed again, clearing his throat and spoke with an ounce more severity, “And because when you fall in battle I hope that this will bring you peace.”

 

Ivar’s lip twitched. There is was—now he sounded like someone who was trying to win a war. He rolled the metal cross over in his hand as he spoke, “Ah, you do want revenge.”

 

Alfred shook his head, “I want justice, for the lives the norsemen have destroyed.”

 

He wanted to say more, and Ivar wondered what all the unsaid things he was thinking were. Ivar wanted to hear all of them, and to see if this boy was a greater king than the last two. He was certainly different.

 

“You will lose,” Ivar said realizing that Alfred was making a move to go away—that this conversation had finally reached its end. It couldn’t though, not yet, and so Ivar provoked him a final time, “When you have, I shall send this back with your head to the gates of your people.”

 

“And when you die,” Alfred spoke harshly, face flushed red in anger now, rather than embarrassment. Ivar felt himself raise with anticipation at what insult the boy would spit, but instead, Alfred looked away and let out a deep breath. When he looked back up he told Ivar, “When you die, I shall be sure that you are buried alongside your father.”

 

Ivar felt himself move back at the words, as if they were some sort of curse, spoken in the gentlest of tones as the boy king turned on his horse and rode away. Ivar continued to stare, until Alfred had disappeared over the hill and Ivar was left alone.

 

He continued to clutch the necklace in his palm as Hvitserk came back up the hill beside him.

 

“What was that all about,” His brother asked, “What did he say? Did he try to convince you to accept the surrender?”

 

Ivar shook his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and he laughed at himself, shaking out of his startled state. He tucked the necklace into his pocket, hiding it before his brother could see. “Of course he did. He’d be an idiot not to.”

 

“Well,” Hvitserk prodded, “What did you tell him?”

 

“No one is surrendering.” Ivar grabbed the reins to the chariot and shook them to the horses began moving, “We aren’t leaving this land until we’ve won.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone is interested, id totally be up for expanding this into a series...
> 
> my tumblr is northsansa is anyone wants to complain about the show.


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